


But It's Wrong

by Mssmithlove



Series: Happiness Awaits [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Confused John, Forbidden Love, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Teenlock, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3984766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/pseuds/Mssmithlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have been together for 30 years, solving cases in Victorian London. But some days are darker for John, the weight of the world on his shoulders, needing a bit of soothing from his lover and a nice trip down memory lane to when it all began.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But It's Wrong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BecauseFandomsAreBetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BecauseFandomsAreBetter/gifts).



> Okay so this is the original request from the ever-lovely BecauseFandomsAreBetter:
> 
>  _Basically a fluffy romantic Victorian-era teenlock story where Sherlock and John are both shy around each other, but they also really want to get with each other. I love the whole John taking care of Sherlock (or vice versa) thing, especially when it comes to smut. And they're all studious in public but around each other they're carefree and laugh a lot and just pure fluff/smut things._  
> 
> Okay so… this got sort of got out of control... less fluffy and more angst-ridden… I'm sorry! I started reading about the Victorian Era and like they didn't even have a term for gay back then and I just… I got carried away. But I PROMISE I will make next week crazy fluffy!

The window was fogging from the steam of his mug as he stared out from the first floor of 221B, gazing up at the rolling gray clouds hanging overhead threatening to release a torrential downpour like every other day in London. The darkness did nothing to improve John Watson's currently subdued, unsettled mood. The kind of mood that had plagued him on occasion since he was a boy.

"You've been quiet today."

Sherlock's silky voice swayed through the chilled atmosphere, instantly warming John all over. He huffed a quiet sigh, shoulders rising and falling at the sound of that comforting voice coming toward him. He hummed softly in reply.

"One of those days?" Sherlock murmured, breath ghosting against John's ear, standing just out of reach of touching.

"Mm."

They stood silently, two grown men watching people pass by just below their window, standing much closer than socially acceptable, hidden only by the four walls of their shared flat.

Of course that was their whole life, wasn't it? Hiding. Concealed away from prying eyes, from disapproving glares, from the law itself.

And most days, it was enough. It was enough for John just to be with Sherlock, to be with the man he'd loved for nearly thirty years, work beside him every day, the boffin and the bachelor they were called, famous Detective Sherlock Holmes and his sidekick Dr. Watson, living publicly as platonic co-workers and privately as sodomites.

Most days it was enough.

But days like today, days where the sky lay dark and ominous, where couples hurried along Baker Street, hand in hand, umbrellas held over head by caring husbands or significant others, prepped and ready to protect loved ones from the rain, John couldn't help feeling a bit cheated.

He wanted that.

He wanted to be out in the rain with his lover, holding his hand, snuggling close under an umbrella. He wanted to stroll down the street, stealing gentle kisses and exchanging fond smiles. He wanted what he knew he'd never have.

Not in this lifetime anyway.

"How does a bath sound?" Sherlock murmured in that soothing way, lips trailing against John's ear.

John exhaled softly. A bath sounded extraordinary. It was one of those things for them. One of the many ways they took care of each other.

He turned and followed his lover to the loo, slipping out of his clothing with practiced ease, breath catching in his throat as he watched Sherlock's trousers fall to the floor. Even now, after so many years, the sight of his nude partner still did something to John nothing else could ever do. Although now it didn't bother him like it used to. Now, it no longer tore him up inside, confusing him to no end, not understanding how he could be attracted to another boy while the rest of his mates seemed to be falling all over themselves for the attentions of a girl.

That now seemed like a lifetime ago.

And truthfully, it was.

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

"Jump!"

"I can't!" Teenaged John Watson cried from the tree of the branch, knees wobbling as he stared down at the water before him.

A seventeen-year-old Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes. "Do it!"

"No!"

"John, you're being ridiculous," Sherlock chided, crossing his arms from the dry shore of the lake. "It's just water. It won't eat you."

"There might be eels in there!" John yelled back, clutching to the tree like his life depended on it. Which, as far as John was concerned, it did.

"Of course there are eels!" Sherlock hollered, which did nothing to comfort John's current state of terror. "Don't bother them and they won't bother you. Now JUMP!"

"I can't!" John yelled again weakly, shaking his head.

"John Watson, so help me, if you don't jump I will climb up and shove you off that branch."

Whipping his head around toward the ground, John fixed his best friend of ten years with a rather severe glare, eyelids slitting, blurring the small, currently-striped clad figure of Sherlock Holmes. "You wouldn't," John challenged.

"I absolutely will," Sherlock retorted, making to take a step toward the trunk of the tree where a rather unstable ladder was nailed to the bark.

"No!" John shrieked, feet dancing against the branch in panic. "No, stay down there!"

"You can jump or you can wait for me to get up there," Sherlock was muttering as he reached the first rung. "Either way, you're going in the water."

"Sherlock!" John cried, watching in wide-eyed horror as his friend began to ascend the ladder. "Stop!"

"If you don't want to be thrown, you better jump," Sherlock called.

John closed his eyes, fear and irritation warring for dominance, body seeming undecided on if he was more furious with his best friend or more terrified of slimy creatures lurking beneath the dark water below him.

"Sherlock, I swear-"

"You have three seconds to decide," Sherlock's voice was suddenly too close.

John whirled around in time to see a curly head popping up over the branch, smirk already in place, green eyes twinkling with mischief.

A squeak of panic slipped from John's lips.

"Three," Sherlock growled, propelling himself up onto the wood, bare feet clinging to the bark.

"Sherlock-" John warned.

"Two," Sherlock made his way in small shimmies toward John's frozen figure.

"Don't-"

"One!"

Sherlock lunged for John, tearing his arms free of the trunk, wrapping his arms around his chest.

And then they were falling. John heard a scream echo through trees of the watering hole and refused to believe it came from him. And before he knew it, ice cold liquid was slapping against his skin as they hit the water, limbs tangled uncoordinatedly, submerging immediately in freezing chill.

Sherlock's grip loosened and John scrambled to swim, to move his arms and legs and kick to the surface because _Jesus_  it was cold. He burst through the water, gasping and groaning and frantically splashing his way to the edge. Eels were somewhere nearby, he just _knew_  it.

Something wrapped around his ankle and he kicked viciously, panic ripping through him, tearing a shriek from his lips.

"John, relax!" Sherlock cackled from behind him. "It's just me!"

Attempting to turn, John tugged his ankle, realizing the grip was in fact fingers and not a slimy eel. Sherlock freed him, allowing him to turn and gape at his friend.

Fury roared in John's head. "Arse!" he cried, flipping his hand through the water and splashing Sherlock with all his might. "You complete arse!"

Sherlock, for his part, was still laughing, holding up his hands to fend off the water, body shaking with mirth. "There aren't any eels in here!" he giggled, swimming closer, dodging John's attempts at flicking more water at him. "Please, John, you really think I would put you in danger?"

"Yes!" John yelled indignantly.

"Well, I wouldn't," Sherlock replied, sobering slightly. "You're far too important."

And just like that, like every other day over the past year, the air was suddenly thick in John's lungs. The chill suddenly faded to a warm lull in his veins, body heating at the tender words.

Because this what happened to him now. Whenever Sherlock said something kind, or did something nice or bloody  _moved_ a certain way, John abruptly forgot to breathe.

It had been a subtle change. One that John probably wouldn't have noticed if it hadn't become so much more. It started as just a passing thought. A simple notice that Sherlock looked rather nice in tight fitting trousers. An idea that the dimples in Sherlock's face when he grinned were rather precious. A cursory glance at Sherlock's behind and long legs and strong shoulder blades as he walked ahead of him.

In truth, things could have been different. Things could have been unspoken and laid to rest, festering but never becoming more than they were. Nothing more than notices and glances and shy smiles, occasional brushes of fingers or bumps of legs.

If Sherlock Holmes had been anyone else, it could have ended right there.

But Sherlock Holmes was... well, Sherlock Holmes.

A different sort of boy. A rebel. A boy without boundaries or cares for social norms. A boy who loved sciences and maths and equations and puzzles. A boy who knew things, observed things,  _deduced_  things as he loved to condescendingly announce to anyone who would listen. A boy who had no time for prim and proper society, though both his and John's parents lived the lifestyle, both families inheriting long lines of family money, sending both Sherlock and John to public school like the good posh boys that they were. But John wasn't an odd boy. Sherlock was. An odd boy. A different boy. A fascinating boy.

Sherlock marched to the beat of his own drum. Hell, Sherlock made the drum himself. He worried not about how others viewed him, how anyone treated him, barely hearing the teasing and the sneers the other boys at school called. He was who he was and John secretly loved that about him. He loved the abnormal Sherlock seemed to possess and surround himself with. The possibilities he carried with his every step.

So really, John shouldn't have been surprised when Sherlock noticed his lingering stares. Noticed John's eyes darting over his body appreciatively, wetting his lips at the sight, cheeks heating when caught. He shouldn't have been surprised when Sherlock seemed a bit shocked at the attention. But what he could never have even thought about preparing for was when Sherlock began to... participate.

Lowered eyelids, parting lips, long, tender gazes over John's mouth, John's fit body, John's groin. God, it was intoxicating being stared at like that. By someone like Sherlock Holmes, who was already quite severe and serious in his features, his gaze already piercing and ever-knowing on an everyday basis as it was. But a sultry, interested Sherlock Holmes was... something else entirely. It made things in John's body feel uncomfortably hot, made him think unfathomable thoughts, made his mouth fill with saliva. Made him _want_.

Which was so unbelievably  _wrong_.

It wasn't spoken of. Not directly. It was simply fact that men do not... do that. Men do not lie with other men. Men do not enjoy other men in that way. Men are not attracted to other men. It was bad. Sinful. Wrong. All so very, very wrong. Illegal even. No, boys marry girls. Boys do not marry boys.

But John didn't like girls. He didn't have any interest in women or their small bodies or their round, protruding breasts. He had an interest in Sherlock. Sherlock with his slender body and pretty lips and curly hair. A slight femininity to his features but still all male. All man. Strong and independent and powerful and capable of things John couldn't even imagine.

Sherlock, his very best friend, someone he'd shared practically everything in his life with, was creeping into another facet John didn't even know he possessed. A side he  _shouldn't_ possess.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, well."

Sherlock smiled softly, his normal reaction to flustering John with his unexpected attention. Like he was some precious thing Sherlock just couldn't understand fully. It made John want to wrap his arms around him and bury his face in his neck.

Which was obviously not going to happen.

Sherlock let it go, like he always did, never pushing the issue. It was only flirting really. Harmless even. The thoughts after the flirting were of course the issue.

And so they swam and jumped and laughed and played and ignored what was happening between them.

Because, John chanted his mantra in his head,  _it was wrong._

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was only a matter of time before one of them snapped.

Turned out, it was John.

Papers spread on the floor, sitting across from each other in cross-legged positions, John was staring. He knew he was staring, gaping even, trying so damned hard to listen to his friend rant about their public school and the spoiled brats they spent every day with. They were in Sherlock's room, seeing as his parents were gone the most between the two of them, traveling around the country like the rich folk they were. Leaving Sherlock to fend for himself, with a brother off at university and a giant house alone.

It was nice that they could often run rampant through the house without interruption, although John often felt guilty leaving Sherlock there alone. He spent many nights over to keep him company, his own parents only slightly less absent than Sherlock's.

Although now, right at this moment, it may have done John some good to have an elder nearby. To stop him from staring. To stop him from doing something he'd regret.

Biting down hard on his bottom lip, John did his best to pay attention to the  _words_  coming out of Sherlock's mouth and  _not_  Sherlock's mouth. With difficulty, brow furrowed, John attempted to listen, blinking rapidly, only realizing three sentences later he'd been so focused on focusing he hadn't heard a word Sherlock had said. He rattled his skull, silently berating himself to pay attention, suppressing the irritated growl his throat was begging to make.

"John?"

It wasn't until his name filled the silent room that he realized Sherlock had long since stopped talking and was now eyeing him curiously, eyes softening with concern. "Are you alright?"

God, his voice.

Like dark, rich chocolate pouring over John's entire body, trickling down his limbs and seeping into his pores, simultaneously warming him and soothing him all at once in continuous waves of comforting pleasure.

"John," Sherlock breathed and John's eyes snapped to those icy blue irises that crinkled at the edges when he laughed and narrowed when he was irritated and haunted John's bloody dreams and were now staring, lids widening around them, barely blinking.

Which was when John noticed his own hand was reaching out over the short distance between them, fingers only just grazing Sherlock's smooth, porcelain-like cheekbone, finding the skin under his hand rather warm to the contrasting chill he'd always assumed it would hold. He should move away, he knew he should, but once he made contact there was no going back. He watched the movement, mesmerized by the sheer fact that he was touching, actually touching Sherlock, the hand grazes and leg bumps and lingering stares suddenly seeming so dull in comparison to this intimate moment. He trailed his fingers down to the curve of Sherlock's barely-there smile line, wishing Sherlock would grin so he could dip his finger into the dimple on his cheek and feel the deepness of it. He continued his caress down to Sherlock's chin, following the sharp line of his jaw, dragging his touch up and up, until his fingers rested on the Sherlock's bottom lip.

If he were more conscious, he would be aware of his own tongue snaking out and licking his own lips as he watched Sherlock's part, revealing a pink tongue resting over the tops of his teeth, breath coming out heated against the tips of John's fingers.

John couldn't look away.

He watched Sherlock slowly begin to pant, chest heaving slightly, puffs of air hitting the digits against his lips, eyes lidded. John stared. And stared. And stared, knowing full well he should look away. Knowing he shouldn't be touching. Knowing he shouldn't even be  _looking_  but all that knowledge, all those facts burned into his mind didn't seem to seer so hot anymore as he traced Sherlock's lips. Those facts that defined his entire life, that used to glare darkly in front of any desire or want now seemed to smudge blearily and fade into the darkness behind him, everything and everyone exiting his every thought except this boy, this precious, beautiful boy in front of him, staring back at him, eyelids fluttering slightly under his touch.

And without warning, that wet, pink, delicate tongue slipped out of Sherlock's mouth, over the initial bump of his lip and grazed along John's fingers gently, sweeping along them in one soft motion before disappearing back between his teeth, lips closing over John's digits in a gentle kiss.

John stopped breathing.

And before any significant amount of time had passed, before John could take a moment and properly take in what he was doing, what was happening, his fingers were curling under Sherlock's jaw, thumb resting on his chin and pulling, bringing his mouth down softly on Sherlock's. He just barely brushed his lips atop Sherlock's pout, closing his eyes and letting himself feel what he was feeling, not fight against it or deny it or ignore it but let it happen, let it be.

A small gasp elicited itself from Sherlock mouth and spiraled John right back to reality, swiftly throwing the switch back in place and reminding, screaming, spitting that this was wrong wrong  _wrong_.

And then John was running, fleeing from the empty house that occupied his best friend and barreling down the street, sweat dripping down his temples and his heart in his throat.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They didn't speak of it.

They pretended, faking strained smiles and awkward interactions for a good week before things simmered back to normal. It was painful, John blushing furiously every time Sherlock looked at him, fingers fidgeting at his sides under any type of scrutiny by his best friend.

Because when John dared to look at Sherlock, dared to catch his eye, Sherlock's beautiful eyes seemed so… far away. Something like longing. Looking at John like he was some perfect being, some unattainable entity that Sherlock desperately wanted. John understood that look so well it ached to look directly at him.

But that wasn't the biggest problem.

The biggest problem was how difficult it was for John to forget. The initial shock had scared him off but now… now he was thinking. Thinking about what would have happened if he hadn't fled. If he'd stayed. If he'd…

No.

It was wrong.

Bad.

Deviant.

Delinquent behavior.

And even if Sherlock may have been some of those things, John was certainly not. John wasn't odd. John wasn't different. John didn't  _want_ to be different.

And so things went back to what they were; festering, terrifying, confusing feelings that simply would have to be controlled.

And John had every intention of controlling them.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Which was, of course, how John found himself standing in Sherlock's personal loo, dressed in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

Having a small panic attack.

What John hadn't factored in when he'd declared himself controlled was how much time he actually spent with Sherlock Holmes. Every class, every walk home from school, every adventure out into the woods or the lake or the market, John and Sherlock did all of that together.

And time spent together only meant time John spent fretting and wondering and fidgeting and… _wanting_. All the  _wanting_  he did… _god_.

Which, inevitably led to John being careless.

After a day out in town, trudging down the muddy roads of London, John and Sherlock had burst back into the Holmes mansion, dirty and grubby and both needing baths.

Which was how John found himself in his current state, after bathing in the tub, absently thinking about Sherlock and his pretty lips, and not realizing just how vulnerable this situation truly made him.

How stupid he had been.

The realization had washed over him and he had scrubbed his skin raw, panic seizing his chest as he dove out of the tub and for a towel, realizing too late he had no clean clothes in the loo with him.

Which was what brought him to his current place. Staring into the mirror. Wondering when he'd become so bloody stupid.

A creak of the floorboards made John's thoughts abruptly halt, body freezing in terror at the interruption of his internal scolding. A tiny breath from behind him brought John's gaze up in the mirror to meet familiar now-green eyes, looking so unsure and so nervous. Something wrapped around John's chest and squeezed.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, naked from the waist up, trousers hanging loosely off his hips, hands twitching at his sides, eyes flashing in the reflection of the mirror, piercing John in a more intimate way than ever before. John couldn't help sucking in a harsh breath at the sight as the air thickened around them, enveloped in the loo, bare chests only meters apart, bodies vibrating with anticipation. He held Sherlock's gaze, unblinking in their reflections, unable to tear his eyes from those rapidly darkening irises, unable to stop his own lips from falling open, unable to keep from breathing harder and harder.

This was wrong.

This was _wrong_.

Right?

God but how could it be wrong? How when the only thing John wanted to do was turn, bury his face in Sherlock's neck and close his eyes. Feel their naked skin pressing together. Feel their bodies intertwining.

 _No_.

This was  _wrong_.

John tried to move away in the small space but his limbs were no longer listening to his brain. John tried to close his eyes, to break the spell those beautiful eyes had put him under but his lids didn't move. He tried to simply blink, do something to prove he was still in control, prove that he hadn't surrendered every fiber of his being to the mercy of Sherlock Holmes.

Which proved completely and utterly false as Sherlock stepped up behind him, gaze finally falling away from John's face in the mirror to his actual body. John realized immediately what a fool he'd been to believe if he were no longer staring into fathomless pools of ever changing color he would have any sort of control over himself. Because now, Sherlock was close. Closer than ever before, heated breath ghosting down John's neck, eyes grazing down the side of John's face.

No.

No, this was wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wro-

"Do you want me to stop?" Sherlock's velvety voice wafted its way into John's ear, the words falling out like liquid, the air that following them damp and devastating in their affects.

Because John was shaking his head.

Only gently, so gently it would be difficult to see from afar.

But Sherlock wasn't far. He was here. Right here. Breathing and murmuring and so close John could taste his scent on his tongue, hear his heart beating in his chest, a steady rhythm that couldn't even begin to set pace with John's racing pulse thundering in his neck. Which sat only a breath away from Sherlock's lips. Which John was seemingly unable to take his eyes off of.

"John," Sherlock whispered, leaning forward just enough to rest his forehead against John's temple, eyes sliding shut at the touch. "John."

John only just realized his own eyes had closed, the brush of Sherlock's curls against his own shorter fringe setting off a series of tingles, starting at the point of contact and sliding down his neck, spreading to every nerve ending like a cool wind, making the tiny hairs on every inch of his body stand on end.

He should tell him to stop.

He should tell him this is wrong.

He should tell him he doesn't want this.

He said none of those things.

Instead, he heard himself say something he'd sworn he'd convinced himself he didn't need. Turned out he did need it. Badly.

"Touch me," he heard the words tumble out of his mouth in a hushed tone, body swaying toward Sherlock gently, emphasizing the request. His eyes attempted to fly open in panic, to stop this madness right this minute, to scream and pull away and run, run, run.

All thoughts of fleeing promptly did just that - fled. Right out of his mind and off on their own accord as Sherlock's long, pale fingers settled on John's waist. The touch was light, no demand or push or pull, just simply rested there, holding onto John, grounding him in such an unfamiliar way. A way John never knew he craved, not until this moment, to trust someone like this. To be taken care of like this. To be held and touched and needed.

Sherlock's lips brushed over John's temple in a soft caress, once, twice, and a third time before trailing to his cheek, laying another kiss there. He made his way in a line down the side of John's face, dropping gentle touches of lips to his jaw and just below his ear, down his neck, to his collarbone. He took the skin between his lips and sucked gently, licking to soothe it under his touch. John let his head fall back onto Sherlock's shoulder, giving over to every sensation Sherlock was eliciting in his body, deciding nothing that felt this good could be wrong. Not when the person doing these things meant so much to the person on the receiving end.

"Come with me," Sherlock murmured against his skin, sliding his hands over the v of John's hips and finding his hands at his sides, lacing their fingers.

John turned obediently, following as Sherlock walked backwards, pulling him along, moving slowly and reassuringly, offering a small smile in encouragement. John found his own lips pulling into a shy smile of his own, feeling intensely vulnerable in only his towel, but no longer afraid. No longer terrified of Sherlock and his gentle touch and his kind words, but still utterly exposed like this, in full view of another boy. Sherlock guided him to the edge of his canopy bed, stopping and pulling John toward him until they stood toe to toe, equally vulnerable, equally unprepared.

Sherlock's fingers untangled from John's, sliding up his arms in a smooth, sensual motion, trailing over his shoulders and collarbone and neck, coming to rest just along his jawline, effectively cupping John's face in his hands. He leaned in slow enough to allow John to pull away if he needed and laid several chaste kisses on his lips, thumbs stroking along John's cheeks. A small gasp escaped Sherlock's lips and John only then became aware of his own hands resting against the sharp bones of Sherlock's hips, clutching him closer, pulling at him to further their touch. Sherlock complied, stepping one foot between the small space of John's, sliding his knee between John's thighs, and pressing their bodies together, from toes to lips. John moaned softly at the warmth of Sherlock's skin, grip tightening to keep him this close.

A soft wetness slid across John's lips, silently requesting access, and John complied, opening his mouth to allow Sherlock to delve his tongue inside, twining together with John's. Their lips moved slowly, tongues touching and retreating, mouths opening and closing, finding their own rhythm, finding how they moved together and breathed each other in. John gasped, moving impossibly closer, hands moving from Sherlock's hips to his lower back, palms flattening and pressing, suddenly needing to be pressed tightly together, needing to be closer than humanly possible, needing to know he could trust this. Needing to know he could hold onto Sherlock like this. Hold on and be close and be okay.

And without any recollection of moving, John's back was suddenly pressing into feathery bed sheets as Sherlock laid him down, never breaking their kiss or their touches. Sherlock loomed over him, weight settled on palms, dragging John's mouth open again and again, tenderly exploring him.

Sherlock sat back, soothing the break in their touch with several kisses to John's neck and chest.

And slowly brought his shaky fingers to the fly front of his trousers.

John stopped breathing momentarily.

Eyes locked, Sherlock pulled the buttons free from their stitched holes, pulling either side down to reveal cream underpants, tied tightly at the front. He wriggled down off the bed and, averting his eyes, pulled the string and tugged undergarments and trousers all down at once to his ankles.

John bit his lip hard, face flaming at the nudity of a boy in this setting. Of course he'd been in the showers with other boys at school but this wasn't like that at all. This was different. So  _very_  different.

It meant that Sherlock was trusting him. As much as John was letting himself be vulnerable, Sherlock was placing himself in an equal state, trusting John with everything he had.

John wanted to say all of that. He wanted to make promises and desperate pleas and declarations, swear on everything he owned that he would never, ever hurt him.

But the words wouldn't come. Not now. Not yet. Not when this was all so new and still so terrifying.

Sherlock crawled back up the bed, hovering over John, thin, naked body shivering in the cool air. John couldn't look. He was too embarrassed. Too scared. He sucked in a breath as Sherlock reached his hand down to where the bath towel still laid wrapped snuggly around John's waist. He glanced up to John for confirmation once more before peeling the top layer back.

John stared at the ceiling, cheeks burning so hot he wouldn't have been surprised if they burst into flames, fingers digging into the cotton of the sheets, a layer of sweat forming over his body as Sherlock slowly undressed him.

Pulling free the towel, letting it fall to the floor, Sherlock ran his eyes all over John's form, taking in every muscled line and protruding vein, fingers grazing over John's overly sensitive skin.

"You're so beautiful, John," Sherlock whispered.

Closing his eyes against the wave of intense feeling that washed over him, a small sob escaped John's lips. Something deep in his chest ached heavily, his emotions all warring for dominance within him; fear, arousal, vulnerability... it was making him panic.

"John?" Sherlock murmured in concern, voice much closer now, the mattress dipping on either side of John's body as he leaned over him. "John, are you alright? Is this too much?"

John nodded, lips quivering, eyes stinging at the corners, feeling so unbelievably humiliated.

Sherlock, somehow managing only to touch his lips to John's forehead and nothing else, made a pained sound. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "We can stop." He moved to pull away.

John, in another more fierce wave of panic, reached for him before he could go to far. "No!" he cried, shaking his head, eyes flying open to find Sherlock's features crinkled in concern. "N-no, please," he whispered. "Just... maybe we get underneath the covers?"

Sherlock's shoulders visibly sagged in relief, his face sliding into a smile that made John feel like the most precious thing in the world.

John's face burned under the look, eyes darting away. "I still want to touch you," he murmured. "But I feel... I just feel..."

"Exposed," Sherlock finished for him, reaching for his hands and pulling him up to bring the covers out from under him. "I understand."

John nodded, appreciating Sherlock's observant skills so much more at this moment, and crawled under the blankets, his chest loosening as he was once again covered.

Sherlock settled gingerly beside him, only centimeters from John.

Which was suddenly unacceptable.

John scooted closer, needing desperately to touch Sherlock again, to feel his weight and his breath and his hands and his lips. "Sherlock," he whispered, pressing himself to the boy next to him, lining his chest and stomach and hips along the side of Sherlock's body, suddenly terrfied that he wouldn't know how much John still wanted…no -  _needed_  him.

"I've got you, love," Sherlock murmured, winding an arm around John as he turned to him. "I'm right here." He stroked a calming hand through John's hair, pulling him close under the blankets and holding him, John's cheek landing on Sherlock's chest.

Everything was so soft and warm. The blankets puffed around him, the body pressed against him, the lips caressing his forehead. John had never felt so... safe. So completely vulnerable and yet so protected. Cocooned in security, Sherlock taking his time with him, his touch remaining gentle, John had never experienced anything like this before.

It was almost enough to make him forget.

Forget that the world outside this room could come down on their heads if anyone ever found out about what they'd done. This alone could be the end of them both.

"I'll always take care of you, John," Sherlock rumbled deep from within his chest, holding John as close as he could. "I promise. I won't ever let anything happen to you."

All those times John had wished he could touch Sherlock like this, wished he could press his face to Sherlock's neck and simply breathe suddenly came rushing back to him, suddenly reminding him that he could do this now. That he could touch him and bury into him and hold on. And that it was okay. Maybe not publicly, but privately, it was alright. Sherlock would allow it. Sherlock would let him.

Turning his face into smooth skin, John pressed the bridge of his nose to Sherlock's pulse, nostrils filling with the slightly musky scent of his best friend, body thrilling at the touch. He inhaled slowly, taking it in, savoring the sweet spice. On impulse he pressed his lips to the skin just under Sherlock's ear, sneaking his tongue out to taste how smooth it felt.

Sherlock's breath caught above him, arms tightening, body rolling just a bit closer to John's. The hitched gasp and long _ohh_  that followed from Sherlock's mouth as John laved over his skin again... Christ it  _did_  things to John, making him squirm closer to do it again and again, in different spots along Sherlock's neck, enthralled with the reactions he was pulling.

Until his naked flesh pressed against Sherlock's.

His hardened cock brushed against Sherlock's hip, gently, barely even a whisper of a touch, and John moaned softly. No one had ever touched John between his legs besides himself, curiosity and young libido getting the best of him. Another thing for him to feel absurdly guilty about.

But this, now, this touch, this uncoordinated bump of his cock against Sherlock's body, he didn't feel a bit guilty. No, he felt  _alive_. On  _fire_. Tiny zaps of pleasures rippled from the head of his penis through his hips and up his body, rolling in waves through him. It was new and unbelievably pleasurable.

He went to move again, to experiment with another graze when suddenly the warm body beside him was moving, Sherlock rolling toward him, angling them both onto their sides. He pulled John into him again, pressing John's face back into his neck. John's hips pushed forward again, searching for something to frot against. Instead, they were met with a hand.

Sherlock's hand.

Grazing his skin, touching softly along his pelvis, carding through his pubic hair, fingers gingerly wrapped around the base of John's cock.

Stars exploded behind John's eyes, mouth opening against Sherlock's neck in a guttural moan, the taste of Sherlock's pulse fluttering against his tongue only adding to the pleasure.

He had no words. He couldn't speak. His hands found their way to Sherlock's shoulders, holding on and  _writhing_  into long fingers that were suddenly dragging long pulls over his erection.

"John, Christ, you're gorgeous," Sherlock was murmuring heatedly into his ear, shimmying his own hips towards where they were touching. "So perfect, look at you, just  _look_ at you."

John sobbed into Sherlock's skin, pleasure firing from every cylinder of his body, thrusting into Sherlock's fist, panting harshly. Sherlock's hand dragged back down his length, and the head of his cock bumped against Sherlock's own erection.

Which promptly brought John right over the edge, spilling warm liquid from the tip of his dick in long, never ending strings, surely ruining the bed sheets and reaching Sherlock's cock easily. John held on to the boy touching him, riding out the blissful peak of an orgasm he'd never known, sure he was making ridiculous needy noises and unable to care. One of his hands had found its way into Sherlock's curls and he pulled down, desperately needing an anchor, needing to hold on tightly to something, convinced if he didn't he might just float away in ecstasy.

Sherlock threw his head back with the sharp yank of John's hand, crying out and for a split second John thought he'd hurt him.

Then more warm liquid was suddenly pulsing onto John's stomach, the boy in his arms shaking violently overcome by his own pleasure. John watched, slack jawed as Sherlock's own orgasm rolled through him, shuddering sharply through his body, lips parted, panting hot breaths into the air. John watched without blinking, staring up into the face of his best friend currently wrapped in satisfaction, never wanting that look on Sherlock's face to move from where it was. It was so beautiful. So utterly blissful and unabashed and perfect. John drank it in like warm milk, feeling like he could purr with contentment as Sherlock fell apart in his arms. He didn't say a word, simply observed, like Sherlock had done to him so many times, silently watching and taking in every stuttered gasp, every vibration, every little sound that Sherlock made John remembered and savored.

They slowly calmed, still tangled together, sweaty bodies pressed tightly together, neither boy willing to let go, to move away just yet. Sherlock turned his head down, pressing his lips to John's forehead for several long moments, his pulse finally slowing beneath John's lips. John closed his eyes under the touch, fighting against the sudden urge to panic and run, pretend like this never happened, pretend like he was still the good little public school boy he always had been.

As it turned out, Sherlock was the first to pull away, loosening his grip on John and scooting back. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock smiling softly down at him, cheeks flushed a lovely pink, eyes crinkled with such affection it made John's chest hurt. "Are you alright?" Sherlock murmured, voice coming out hoarse like he'd just woken.

Those three words somehow soothed John. Soothed and terrified him, suddenly having no urge to run but to curl up as close to Sherlock as he could manage and hide away from the world forever. "What are we going to do?" John whispered, voice cracking slightly in distress, only just realizing how unbelievably complicated this was. Because John wasn't done. Not now. Not when he'd just found out it would be like this. Not when he'd just discovered that Sherlock would be like this. So loving and careful and protective. Not when he'd just discovered Sherlock could make him feel like  _this_.

His thoughts must have played across his features because Sherlock's hand was abruptly cupping his cheek, thumb gliding over his skin in an understanding caress. "We'll sort it out," Sherlock murmured. "We'll have to keep it a secret but I...I want to be with you."

He said it with such conviction. Such ferocity. Like if there was one thing in this life he truly believed it was that he wanted to be with John Watson.

John's pounding heart lurched to one side with such adoration he thought it might rip itself from his chest and crawl right into Sherlock's body, curl up and nestle in forever.

Forever.

He could hear Sherlock say things like this to him  _forever_.

God, it was terrifying.

"I want to keep you," Sherlock whispered, pulling John back to his chest, wrapping his long arms around him again. "Please let me keep you."

John was nodding before he'd even processed what he was agreeing to, his blonde fringe rubbing against Sherlock's dark chest hairs. His eyelids grew heavy in the heat of Sherlock's skin as he burrowed deeper under the covers and into Sherlock with a wide yawn.

The last thing he heard before sleep claimed him was Sherlock chuckling into his hair.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It began to eat at him almost immediately.

It started when he got home and climbed into his cold bed.

It got worse the longer John laid alone.

It was excruciating when John had to look his mother in the eye and pretend that he was still her devout, innocent son, never dreaming of touching or laying with another boy the way he'd touched and laid with Sherlock. Pretend he hadn't had another boy's ejaculate dripping down his stomach only hours earlier.

It hurt.

He was a liar. A bad seed. A sinner.

And no one knew. No one except him and Sherlock.

It made John's insides squirm uncomfortably and his shoulders droop heavily, like a giant weight sat on them.

It didn't take long to regret it. Only a day at most, a day spent with his parents who smiled pleasantly at him over meals and brought him on a picnic and patted him on the back about his exceptional grades.

A day and John wanted to take it all back. All of it. He wanted to be that boy they thought he was. That sweet, unassuming boy with excellent marks and life plans and a best friend that was socially acceptable. He didn't want hidden secrets and heady feelings and terror of being caught constantly. It was too much for John's young heart to handle.

He'd have to end it.

Pretend it never happened.

End it and move on.

Maybe Sherlock would understand.

Maybe they could still be friends.

John could push away any desire. It was _Sherlock_  who'd initiated everything.  _Sherlock_  who'd pushed him and questioned him and wouldn't just let it bloody  _go_. John would have been just fine going about his scandal-free life if Sherlock Holmes had better control over himself. It was simple as that, John thought angrily.

This was Sherlock's fault.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John was weak.

So goddamned weak.

He should have been stronger. He should have been strong enough not to fall to pieces the minute he laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes at school. He should have been prepared to be knocked right off his feet with the want that settled deep in his belly. The want to touch Sherlock. To feel Sherlock's hands on him. To fall right back into bed the way they'd been only days ago.

He should have shouted. Screamed that Sherlock was the pervert, the sick boy with sick thoughts, luring John in like some predator to his prey, making him feel these things he knew were wrong. He should have bloody  _shouted_.

Instead, John found himself in a closet. A supply closet with papers and old books and layers of dust, cobwebs hanging low from the ceiling, dirt laying thick on the floor. A filthy closet, where Sherlock Holmes was currently tearing his trousers and pants down around his ankles and laying his hands on John's hips. A closet where Sherlock Holmes was currently taking John's cock into his mouth.

"Ughn!" John cried, throwing his forearm over his mouth and sinking his teeth into the skin, something like liquid fire rippling through him, flooding him in euphoric bliss.

"You taste divine," Sherlock muttered below him, licking the head of John's cock gently before closing his lips are it and suckling, humming contentedly. "God, I've wanted to do this to you for ages."

John wasn't listening. John wasn't bloody _thinking_. John was currently lost at sea, rolling along with the waves of unadulterated pleasure that tight wet heat on his cock was currently delivering to him, hips jerking in time with the swirls of Sherlock's tongue. He moaned against his arm, sobbing muffled little cries as his seed burst into Sherlock's mouth. He tasted blood as he bit into his own skin, wailing with the surge rushing out of him and into the boy on his knees.

Sherlock stroked and licked and sucked him through it, humming little pleased sounds as he swallowed every little bit. John's head spun with bliss and confusion and every other emotion under the sun as he slowly came back to earth, vision clearing, jaw unclenching.

Sherlock rose to his feet, face red as a cherry, perfectly bowed lips pulled into a lazy smile as he took in John's debauched form. He reached out and swiped a bit of blood from John's lip, before leaning in for a kiss.

The touch of Sherlock's mouth to his seemed to kick John's brain back into action and he pulled away, eyes wide, shaking his head. "N-no," he muttered. "No, we… we can't."

Sherlock stepped closer, seeming unperturbed by John's demeanor. "I don't mind the blood," he crooned, sliding his hands onto John's hips. "You do need to get that cleaned up though so it doesn't get infected. I'll help-"

"No!" John cried, softer than he'd hoped for but still fierce, jerking out of reach again, staggering backward. "No to… no to  _this_."

Sherlock's arms dropped slowly to his sides as he eyed John in confusion. "What?"

John huffed, yanking his clothing back up, tying and buttoning anxiously, fingers shaking as they moved. "We can't… we can't do this anymore. This is bad. It's… this is  _wrong_ , Sherlock."

The way Sherlock's features fell crushed John like a bolder dropping onto him, grinding him into tiny flecks of dust and uselessness. The sparkle in Sherlock's eye had suddenly dimmed, fading to cool gray as hurt filled the lines of his face. "No it's not," he bit back, his features attempting to frown into anger but the agony still lingered. "How I feel for you… it's not  _wrong_ , John. It could never be wrong."

John looked away. He couldn't look into those eyes anymore. Couldn't hear words like that come out of that mouth anymore. He couldn't  _be here_  anymore.

"I have to go," he mumbled. "I'm not… this can't happen again. It's wro-"

"Don't," Sherlock barked, grabbing John by the wrist and spinning him around. "Don't say it again. This isn't wrong, John. Does this feel wrong to you? Being this close to me? What about when I held you the other night? Was that wrong, John? Did that  _feel_ wrong?"

"It's not right!" John cried, refusing to meet his eyes, struggling to free himself from Sherlock's grasp but the boy's fingers stood firm, tightening.

"What about when you came all over my hand, huh?" Sherlock's voice was getting dangerously loud. "Was that wrong too? When your semen spilled all over my sheets and my stomach-"

"Stop!" John all but yelled, tears springing to his eyes. "Sherlock, we-"

"I love you," Sherlock murmured, holding John's hand to his heart. "Is that wrong? Is it really wrong for me to love you?"

He wanted to keep struggling, keep pulling and prodding until Sherlock let go. But those words, those heavy, meaningful words wilted John's resolve immediately. He fell against Sherlock's chest, the tears falling in earnest, rocking his body with emotion. "It's against the law," John sobbed softly into the now wet cloth of Sherlock's shirt.

"Fuck the law," Sherlock growled, pulling John impossibly closer. "The law isn't always right John. I want you. I want to take care of you. Let me take care of you, John. Let me…let me love you."

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to fall to his knees and burry his face in Sherlock's stomach and wrap his arms around his waist and say yes yes  _yes_.

But he didn't.

Because later that day, at some point, he'd have to leave this little broom closet. He'd have to face his classmates and his parents and his world and lie until he was blue in the face, pretend the most important thing to him on this earth wasn't important at all. Pretend the thoughts he was having weren't completely sinful and ugly and illegal.

He'd have to go back to pretending. Haul that giant weight back onto his shoulders and fake being a good boy.

And that just wasn't something John thought he could do.

He said nothing. He wiped his eyes, pulled out of Sherlock's grasp and left the room, the door closing loudly, sealing the one thing John wanted and knew he could never have behind it.

It would go away. Surely his thoughts and feelings and wants and needs would all dwindle back into the darkness they came from and he would survive this. He would be okay. He would move on. Forget. Pretend it never happened. Deny it ever happened. He wouldn't speak to Sherlock. He wouldn't think of Sherlock. He would move on. He would move on. He  _had_  to move on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Everything hurt.

All the time.

Every muscle, every limb, every bone in his body ached like it was slowly breaking down, withering away into nothing.

For weeks on end, John slowly decayed, mind wandering to emptiness, distracted with the effort not to do things. Not to think. Not to feel. Exhausted constantly with the weight of-

No.

He refused to think those thoughts anymore.

Refused to remember. Refused to acknowledge.

He hadn't looked at Sherlock in weeks. Hadn't attempted a glance, with effort, hadn't even made for a quick look. Simply ignored him. It was surprisingly easy to do when Sherlock didn't push the issue. Didn't attempt to force him into a conversation or any type of interaction. He, in fact, seemed hell bent on ignoring John as equally as John was ignoring him.

And John slowly faded away. Back in with his stupid mates at school. Boys he didn't even like, but desperate for human contact. They mentioned Sherlock on occasion, and John feigned noninterest, although he clung to their every word, something about Sherlock becoming increasingly snappish and rude, something about Sherlock no longer knowing his place. It was hard to keep track of what was being said when the only word John heard was  _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock._  Which made everything worse. Made him wish more than anything else. Wish he'd never touched Sherlock Holmes. Wish he'd never thought about Sherlock Holmes. Wish he'd never sodding  _met_  Sherlock Holmes.

And John died a little more every day. With the constant battle to not wish and hope and miss the one person he'd always counted on. The one person who always took care of him. The one person he thought he might-

No.

None of that.

It's over.

Done.

Wrong.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"So, you and Holmes are no longer friends?" Phillip Anderson sneered over the lunch table.

John shook his head. "No," he said weakly. God, he was tired. Why did he have to make an effort with pricks like Phillip Anderson? Why did he have to make an effort  _at all_? He was just so bloody  _tired_.

"Good on you, mate," Anderson announced approvingly. "Holmes is sick."

"Mm," John replied meekly, eyelids drooping, wishing so much he could shove a muzzle onto Anderson's face to make him stop talking.

"Anyway, he said something really bad in class," Anderson yammered on. "Real nasty. We had to teach him a lesson that I hope for his sake he learned."

John's eyes snapped open to find Anderson grinning manically at him. "What?"

"Gave him a good round," Anderson replied pleasantly, biting into his sandwich. "Probably be out for a bit from school. Even the teachers said he needed a good knock around."

John was on his feet before Anderson could finish, swinging his book bag over his shoulder and hurrying off, suddenly wide awake, and deliberately ignoring Anderson calling after him.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it took three knocks and a once over that almost brought John to his knees in agony.

Sherlock's face was several different colors of blue, both eyes swollen, lip sliced down the center. He's beautiful, ever-changing eyes stood light gray in contrast to the heavy bruising in the rest of his face.

It was hateful that it was this, this stupid act of boys being ruthless, spoiled brats that brought John to his realization.

He'd rather spend every waking moment defending Sherlock Holmes, taking the punches himself if he had to than spend one more sodding moment with the bastards that did this to him.

Sherlock glared at him through swollen eyes, no longer holding even a hint of the softness they held only a few weeks ago.

"What?" Sherlock barked, making John jump as they'd stood in silence for quite some time. "Come here to see the handy work your precious mates did for yourself?"

He was raising his hand before he could even think, reaching for the broken boy in front of him, needing to touch him so badly, looking at him like this making it so much more urgent. "Sherlock-"

"Don't," Sherlock bit back, stepping out of reach. "We're not doing that again."

A stone dropped heavily into John's stomach. "But I-"

"No," Sherlock said firmly. "I can't keep doing this with you. You think you want it every time but once it's over, the minute you start to think… I can't keep watching you run away from me. I can't, John."

He didn't want to run, god, he wanted to stay forever. Stay here and take care of this boy like he'd taken care of John so many times before.

Suddenly struck with a thought, John grabbed Sherlock's unscathed right hand and pulled him to the loo. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

"John-"

"I said come on," John demanded, pulling as gently as he could at the injured frame of Sherlock Holmes.

The grumbles behind him were ignored as the taut pull on his arm went slack, Sherlock begrudgingly following.

John filled the bath with the warmest water he could without waiting for the boiler to finish, then turned to Sherlock, who sat on the covered toilet seat looking curious and miserable all at once.

"Clothes," John demanded. "Off."

Sherlock frowned. "John-"

"Now, Sherlock."

Huffing and wincing as he stood, Sherlock grappled with his shirt, glaring at John.

Who also began to undress.

Sherlock stopped mid button and gaped. "What're you doing?"

"Preparing for a bath," John replied coolly.

He'd made up his mind.

They were in this.

Sherlock was right. Fuck the law. This wasn't wrong. It couldn't be. Not when John felt like… like  _this_.

"John-"

"I'm here Sherlock," John murmured, pulling his shirt free and tugging his vest over his head. "I'm here and I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

The softness returned. The tender longing look in Sherlock's eyes swirled back in, those sweet, precious crinkles John adored coming back in all their glory. "John," Sherlock whispered brokenly, almost disbelievingly.

"I'm here," John stepped closer, placing gentle fingers on Sherlock's buttons. "I'm so sorry."

Sherlock shook his head. "You… you don't need-"

"I'm sorry," John murmured fiercely. "For all of it. I let fear get the better of me, but I… I miss you so much."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, lips parting in surprise.

Then he lifted his arms up, silently requesting John finish undressing him.

Which John happily obliged, offering small smiles of his own to his… Christ, his  _lover_.

They climbed into the bath, John's back against the cool porcelain of the tub, Sherlock's back against John, dragging warm water over each other's limbs and sighing contentedly.

"I love you," John murmured, face flaming at the admission, body shaking as he stroked his fingers along Sherlock's hurt frame.

Sherlock sighed. "I know."

John snorted. "Of course you do."

"Of course I do," Sherlock agreed, leaning back to grin up at John, wincing slightly at the movement. John dropped a kiss to his temple, and Sherlock settled back, humming quietly.

They sat in silence for a long moment, fingers trailing along sensitive skin, exploring each other again, after weeks of denial. John watched his palm flatten against Sherlock's ribs, grazing along the bones in a tender caress.

"What are we going to do?" John mumbled, spinning slow circles against Sherlock's chest.

"We're going to love each other," Sherlock whispered back, as though this were so simple.

And maybe it was that simple. Maybe John had made it complicated enough and now it could just be… simple.

John closed his eyes, leaning into Sherlock in a soft nuzzle. "We're going to love each other," he agreed, running his nose along Sherlock's hairline. "We're going to love each other."

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

Sinking into the heated water, John sighed heavily feeling all the tension begin to release itself from his body. He leaned back against Sherlock's strong chest, closing his eyes in the steam as Sherlock dragged a flannel over him in smooth glides, soothing over his pained joints and scars and aging skin, wrinkling further in the water. Sherlock had somehow managed to remain perfectly statuesque and unmarked as they got older, his skin remaining completely flawless and lovely. John tried to envy him but it was made difficult when that perfect body still laid beneath his at night, rolling and grinding and pushing into John's every touch, still wanting him the way he had when they were boys.

Things had only shifted slightly when they'd gotten older. After university for Sherlock and the army for John they'd become a team in every aspect of life. A pair who worked together solving cases for New Scotland Yard and lived together on Baker Street and slept in the same bed and bickered over things like tea and dinner and social gatherings. They'd built a life together. It had all seemed so terrifying when they were younger but now John found it quite comforting and calming. They still had to hide, still never told a soul the truth, although there were rumors. But rumors were just that, and the pair of them were useful enough to allow the police to turn the other cheek to their lifestyle, not delve in any further, the coppers obviously deciding Sherlock would be much less eager to help from behind the bars of a jail cell or worse if John were the one in prison.

John had long since moved past the 'wrongness' of it all. It wasn't wrong. To love someone the way he loved Sherlock, there was no possible way it could be wrong. It took years of Sherlock's calming words and gentle caresses to coax John into a state of contentment, but in the grand scheme of things it didn't take that long. The war had been their biggest struggle, letters too risky and visits impossible. John had wondered in the months leading up to his deployment if his need for Sherlock would dim with distance.

If anything, it grew brighter. Hot as the Afghanistan sun, he ached for Sherlock day and night, through the dirt and sand and sweat and tears, he'd physically hurt for the man he knew was back home, in London, making a name for himself and waiting. Waiting for John to come back and join him.

And when John came home, Sherlock stood stoically at the train station, face so solemn John worried bad news was coming his way, hands buried deep in the pockets of his long wool coat, barely looking in John's direction as they made their way out. Not touching. Never touching in public.

But as soon as the door to their new flat had closed, a flat Sherlock had secured while John was away, Sherlock crowded him into the bedroom, pulling at his clothing, tears streaming down his face, murmuring requests of touches and love and begging John never to leave again. It had been utterly beautiful and John hadn't looked back.

Even on days like today, John wasn't looking back. John wasn't wishing for a different life. John wasn't wishing he were different.

He was wishing for the world to change. For the entire universe to understand that this, right here, two naked men lying in a bath, exchanging the gentlest of caresses wasn't wrong. To understand that a man loving another man wasn't wrong.

"I love you, John Watson," Sherlock murmured, running the flannel over John's scar where the bullet had gone through, down over his heart and back again. "I will love you until the day I die."

John's eyelids fluttered, the ache in his chest slowly loosening. If the world wouldn't change, wouldn't understand, then John still had this. Still had this man, for thirty plus years of his life, taking care of John and allowing John to take care of him. He still had this. If nothing else, he still had this.

And later that night, as Sherlock laid him down in the sheets of their bed and slid deep into his body, John forgot about the hateful world around them and focused on his own world. His own world gliding in and out of him in slow waves, whispering endearments and tender words and love, protecting John from the cruelness of real life. John let himself be taken, holding on to the man hovering above him, murmuring his own affections and promises, begging for deeper, harder, closer. And when they both came, it was just as beautiful as the first time they'd come together, so many years ago, hidden away in Sherlock's room, touching and holding and loving.

And as Sherlock collapsed beside him, intertwining their limbs, wrapping him up to sleep, John closed his eyes and breathed, deciding if he got to keep Sherlock then maybe it was all worth it. Maybe, just maybe, it was all fine.

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! 
> 
> Requests/Prompts and/or questions/comments are more than welcome here or on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! XO!


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